


marked and made but not broken nor bent

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, and that's a sin on bioware's part that i intend to rectify, there's not enough canon abelas content in dai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17495444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: Vallaslin marks them both — one with the branches of Mythal, another with the marks of Dirthamen — but it does not break nor bend them. In the aftermath of a war with a monster who reached for godhood, Mahanon Lavellan finds himself illimitably drawn to the sentinel who calls himself sorrow.





	1. short and sharp and strangely bright

“So, you are the Inquisitor’s twin brother.”

Mahanon shifts from his position and slides his gaze over to Abelas without a word. He still holds his bow and keeps his arrow in his other hand. But in the bright sunlight streaming into Skyhold’s training arena, he can see the vallaslin of Mythal emblazoned clearly on his face. The breeze picks up and shifts Abelas’s hood back to reveal wisp-white hair and more of the dark green branches that stretch up further past his forehead. It was an old style of lining that Mahanon personally didn’t recognize. He isn’t a First or a Keeper, but he’s seen enough at the Arlathvhens as well as his sister’s own notes on different variations of vallaslin to know it.

Mahanon wryly quirks a corner of his lips up and comments, “What gave it away?”

It isn’t hard to see; he and his sister share the same color in hair and eyes and skin, and their bone structure is far too similar to be a fluke. Granted, their heights differ; he’s taller than his sister, which is a fact that he constantly lords over her. Still, the answer lies in their genetic code, and it’s too simple to come up with the answer that they’re twins. The knowledge isn’t rare either; everyone knows that the great Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste has a brother.

The Orlesians at Halamshiral attempted to use that against her in some strange and convoluted fashion, and it went rather poorly. He smiles to himself as the memory flickers in his mind. If he remembers correctly, Ellana gave them a vicious and saccharine smile before proceeding to “accidentally” spill a glass of alcohol and “accidentally” set it aflame with a spark from her middle finger. No one got hurt, but Mahanon doesn’t really remember and doesn’t really care. But memories aside, he focuses back on Abelas.

“You already know that, brother of the Inquisitor,” Abelas says simply. The way he phrases it sounded strange in Common, but Mahanon knows the way it’s supposed to sound in Elvhen — a series of syllables and meanings strung together like beads on a string — and it’s comforting. Mahanon hasn’t heard such phrasing’s since he joined the Inquisition, and his habit of saying “incorrect” possessive words were trained out of him by Josephine and Vivienne. His sister sometimes keeps it up to irritate some of the nobles though.

“I do,” Mahanon says with a nod. “It is not hard to see.”

Abelas moves his head to indicate Mahanon, and he continues, “You carry yourself the same way _she_ does, your attitude, your words. The way you pad across the ground is a hunter’s walk, taught by the same hunter to the two of you. Deft hands, deft fingers, quick lips, fast gaze. Both of you are the same in both manner and appearance. Twins.”

Mahanon blinks, and Abelas raises a single eyebrow at him, waiting for a reply. “That is…” Mahanon trailed off. He cleared his throat and finished, “That is a startling observation, sentinel of Mythal. Not many do the same.”

“It is not difficult to see for those that look,” Abelas replies. It was rather modest of him to say so, and Mahanon wondered if all sentinels had such keen skills with observation or if it was just this one that paid too much attention to _him._

“No, it is not,” Mahanon finally chooses to say. “I am Mahanon, once of Clan Lavellan, now of the Inquisition.”

Abelas quirks his lips at the “once” part, and Mahanon notices. It still stings to say “once”, but he needs to tell the truth instead of eternally clinging to the past. And besides, at this point, he and his sister are too intertwined with this facsimile of a clan to ever truly leave without leaving part of themselves behind. Their friends and their memories of their times here are parts of them that they cannot bear to leave behind now. The Inquisition. It both belonged to them, and they belong to it. Whatever that meant at this point.

“I am Abelas, sentinel of the goddess Mythal, blessed may she be,” Abelas says with the same courtesy.

“So, what brings you here, sentinel of Mythal?” Mahanon asks with a casual lilt. He finally places his bow and arrows back on the training rack and leans against one of the fence posts that separates the training ring from the rest of Skyhold.

“There is much left to learn about a world that has changed during uthenera,” Abelas admits. “My path brought me here, and your sister suggested that I stay with the Inquisition. That way, she would be able to offer me and my brethren more resources in our search.” His expression pinches together in a grimace as he continues, “I do not wish to stay, but more of my fellow sentinels wish to stay and see what the world has to offer. I will not be the one to deny them.”

Mahanon gazes out at Skyhold, at the people bustling around and the brilliantly blue skies, and says, “They are not wrong. The world is beautiful despite its shortcomings.” The lines on his face turn harsher as he frowns, and his eyes become more introspective, more unfocused as he thinks of the charred and burning past. The slaughter of his clan, the screams of the dying, the eternal scent of clotting blood on the battlefield. The twinges of pain shooting up his arm in unison with the white-hot flashes of pain his sister felt. But still, there are beautiful and precious things left in this world. Things worth protecting.

He exhales out and glances over to Abelas to say, “Do not make the mistakes others do. Embrace the shortcomings as well as the good, especially the good. Many regret not doing so.”

“You are not like the other quickling elves that I have seen,” Abelas observes.

Mahanon snorts, “I have seen too much of the world to be as sheltered and as innocent as I once was. My sister, moreso.”

“A pity other quickling elves have not done so then,” Abelas replies with a twist of his lips.

Mahanon’s eyes flash as he retorts, “It is a blessing and a curse. We cannot move freely because of the _shemlen_.” He narrows his eyes and continues, “Do not mock us. We do not need your pity; we have survived generations of genocide and slaughter and survived in turn without your centuries of knowledge. We may not be what you once were, but we have lost much and continued to survive in spite of it.”

Abelas’s eyes also grow harder as he shoots back, “That is what we have done also. Centuries of awakening only to find that more and more of my sisters and brothers fall in battle or in wakeless slumber is not something to sneer at, quickling brother of the Inquisitor. Remember that our temple was bled dry, nothing to guard, nothing that was worth our lives.”

Mahanon laughs, short and sharp and strangely bright.

“You know, you were aptly named,” he comments. Truly, Abelas is a man of sorrow. It drenches him, head to toe, and makes itself known in the lines and planes of his sharp face.

Abelas pauses, mouth still slightly open before another word dropped off his tongue, and he blinks before mentioning, “The goddess thought so as well.”

“Well then, sorrow, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Mahanon says, choosing to use the literal translation rather than the name itself. And in all honesty, he is sincere in that. This meeting, this encounter, is much more sincere and genuine than the bloodstained mess and havoc that was their experience at the Temple of Mythal.

That earns him a wry smile from Abelas as he returns, “Well met, Mahanon.”

Mahanon pauses at the sudden usage of his name, but a smile splits his lips open in a dazzling grin.

The next time that he runs into Abelas again is in the training arena once more. However, many sentinels are gathered in the ring this time. Some are fooling around while others train. Some bend magic to their wills and shape it around their weapons to devastate the wooden training dummies. Although their technique is more subtle than his own, Mahanon recognizes the way he shapes magic around his own arrows.

He isn’t the only one there either. Other members and agents of the Inquisition begin to gather around the perimeter of the arena to observe the spectacle. He spots the tall and rigid horns of the Iron Bull and the fur-lined cloak of the Commander in the crowd as well. Mahanon huffs out a small laugh before he cranes his neck to catch more glimpses of the training.

“Well, this is a surprising turn of events, sorrow,” Mahanon calls out, his voice a loud clarion despite the noise in the arena. Abelas twists around to look, and his training tunic fits along the lines of his body in a way that Mahanon can’t help but notice. A wisp of white hair falls across Abelas’s face out of its customary braid, and Mahanon can see the gleam of sweat along his brow. He assumes that Abelas must have finished a sparring match recently to look like that: mussed and sweaty, nothing like the coiffed and stoic persona he presented to the rest of the world.

Abelas doesn’t even look surprised, but instead, he raises an eyebrow and muses, “How so, brother of the Inquisitor?”

Mahanon hoists himself over the fence and lands lightly next to Abelas. “I did not expect you to display your centuries’ worth of knowledge so easily in front of us quickling children,” he answers with a cheeky smile.

Abelas chuckles (a soft, mirthful breath if anything else), and Mahanon feels his heart thrill. It seems as though he earned another laugh from the stoic man once more. “Do you have an issue with that?” Abelas wonders.

“No, no, none at all,” Mahanon replies. “My sister is correct as she usually is. Training and working together is doing good for all of us.” He whistles before commenting, “The view is wonderful as well.” It is a welcome sight to see Abelas out of his ceremonial armor. Training tunics suit him surprisingly well.

“What do you mean by that?” Abelas asks, the beginnings of a frown lying in the corner of his lips. Mahanon shakes his head and waves it off by saying, “No, nothing. Would you mind terribly if I joined in?”

Abelas tilts his head to the right as he wonders out loud, “Why would I have a problem with that?”

Mahanon flashes him a small smile as he strides over to the racks of wooden practice weapons. He surveys the choices before him and reaches out for a simple sparring sword. However, he changes his mind and grabs one of the bows instead. The wood of the bow is worn with use by an archer with larger hands than his, but it will do. The string is taut, and a quiver of practice arrows waits for him. Mahanon exhales as he slings the quiver over his shoulder, and a sense of familiarity washes over him. Archery is no more than a second skin, a third hand, a sixth sense or skill to him at this point. It is comforting in its utter familiarity, and as he lines up his arrow to the target, he lets go of the bowstring with a satisfying twang. He fires arrow after arrow, ignoring other people around him. As he falls back into old habits, he starts instinctively winding stray strands of magic that float through the air. Thanks to the other sentinels, there is more than enough latent energy in the air. Mahanon doesn’t have to even summon the smallest bit of his own.

Another sentinel pauses behind him, and Mahanon’s ear flicks towards that general direction. Even if he can’t see behind him, he can still hear and feel the start and pause of footsteps. A voice, soft and sibilant, speaks in elvhen as she says, “ _You shape magic around your arrows like ours. How did you do that? I believed that the art was lost to your people._ ” Her elvhen is smooth as silk and in flickering syllables that he struggles to properly string together for comprehension. He can't tell the difference between different dialects of high elvhen, but he thinks this is an Arlathan accent. But what does he know of ancient lands and cities? He only knows that it's old and archaic.

Mahanon lowers his bow and turns around to see a sentinel, tall and imposing with her shoulders set straight and her hair pulled back into a braid. Abelas pauses mid-stride and changes his direction to come to Mahanon. “Do you understand the old tongue?” he inquires in common. “I can translate for you if you wish.”

Mahanon laughs and tucks the arrow back into his quiver as he says in his own dialect of elvhen, “If I spoke like this all the time, you would cry from the sheer bastardization of your own precious language. I already know; another elf knowing the old tongue told me that our dialect was too sparse and patched together with too many things from other languages to suffice as true elvhen.”

It still makes him laugh whenever he thinks about Solas and that one time he tried to speak elvhen with the wayward apostate. He distinctly remembers Solas's face pinching into a slight frown before he began to teach him new vocabulary from the Arlathan accent of high elvhen. The old elvhen recorded in ancient memories through the Fade, the  _true_ elvhen, Mahanon supposes. But to him, languages evolve to suit the times they are in, and he doesn't understand why the Dalish dialects get the sheer amount of disdain it does from these ancient elves.

The sentinel wrinkles her brow and purses her lips as she tries to parse Mahanon’s words. Even Abelas looks like he has a difficult time understanding all of it, but the general gist of Mahanon’s words are clear. Mahanon’s cheeks flush a pale pink as he realizes that his accent and his words are been so… Different to them. Unnatural and strange. Foolish. Frankly, he shouldn’t care that much about it, but somehow, he feels more self-conscious about it. Perhaps it is because Abelas was listening in.

“He was not wrong,” Abelas says in elvhen, his expression turning stern. “There is never a time to not learn something new. You will require lessons then.”

The other sentinel blinks before she bursts into soft, pealing laughter. Mahanon ignored that and indignantly says, “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” Abelas returns, still in high elvhen. “You will have to learn.”

“That is an offer that means more to my sister,” Mahanon says in his own Free Marcher dialect. “I was trained as a hunter while she was trained to be the Keeper one day. She would make better use of those lessons rather than me.”

“She can learn as well if she desires, but the fact remains that you will also have to learn,” Abelas replies.

“Who will teach me?” Mahanon tries as he evades the topic again. A cheeky smile grows on his face as he asks, “Are you planning to teach me, _hahren?”_

The other sentinel now tries to just hold in her laughter and remain silent, but her shoulders still shake from the effort. Now, it is Abelas’s turn to flush pink as he insists, “I am not your _hahren_ or your teacher. You will listen, and you will learn, but I do not want to be in that kind of connection or relationship with you.”

“Oh, were you wanting something different then?” Mahanon blithely says. “I would be happy to discuss that branch of conversation than this one.”

Abelas frowns deeply at that, and he steps away from Mahanon with short, sharp movements. The other sentinel just laughs even harder at that and leans over to pat Mahanon’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, brother of the Inquisitor,” she says softly, as if she was telling a secret. “Abelas seems more alive than he has in centuries.”

“How so?” Mahanon asks as he cocks his head to the side.

She gives him a sly smile as she says, “It is not my place to say, but I think that living has done us all more good than slumbering for another century.”

With that, she sweeps her braid over her shoulder and rejoins her fellow sentinels. Mahanon stands there and stares, and he finds that he no longer has the desire to shoot more arrows. The residual magic in the air feels thick on his skin, and for once, he longs for fresh, clean air devoid of any traces of the threads that entangle him now. He swears that he could trace out the line of Abelas’s aura through the magic, and Mahanon needs to get him out of his head for the day.


	2. a lesson of touch and trial

Mahanon starts to meet and encounter Abelas more and more. Compared to that shaky first day when the Sentinels first arrived at Skyhold at least.

Mahanon remembers the first day that the sentinels of Mythal first arrived at Skyhold.

They came on foot, bearing no halla and no aravels. The alert that the scouts first sent on ahead was “a group of wandering Dalish without any aravels or halla, possibly displaced.” Mahanon’s sister was the first one to hurry down, feet pounding against the stone of Skyhold, to welcome part of their People into the fold. He had to admit, he ran just as fast as his sister.

After their first loss, they refused to lose another.

But when they arrived at the gates, they didn’t see any Dalish clan that they knew. No, this was not a displaced clan from Ferelden or Orlais, not from the Free Marches or Nevarra. Not Clan Sabrae nor the remnants of Clan Mahariel or Clan Alerion. Instead, these elves wore brilliantly gleaming bronze armor, and despite their hooded cloaks, Mahanon and his sister could see the green vallaslin that stretched across their cheeks and brow as well as their tired, worn expressions. Pride was still bold on their faces though, and Nuven paused, torn between her role as Inquisitor and her role as the one who took the Well. Abelas was there, vallaslin honoring the same goddess as his sister, but the fact remained awkward and stilted between them and the Sentinels. However, a smile still stretched across Ellana’s face, and it was good to see it again. Her smile had become infrequent with Solas’s absence and the issues with settling down Thedas after Corypheus’s destruction.

 _“Lethallin!”_ she cried out, the word falling easily from her lips. Mahanon saw the way all of the Sentinels stiffened slightly at the accented word, but Ellana kept that bright expression bold on her face, genuine and open in the way that she used to be. “Have you finally come to visit us?” she pressed as she spread her arms open and wide, showing no weapons and signing welcome. Mahanon remembered the way that their grandmother used to do it whenever they came across another clan or group of elves. The gesture stung a raw wound, but Mahanon shook it off and signed the same welcome at the new elves.

Deshanna always said to be welcoming, to be wary, but to remember to be kind as well.

The Sentinels were indeed here to visit and stay for a short while, and at first, it was awkward. They stood out among the regular members of the Inquisition like a sore thumb, and it was strange to see them in everyday activities around Skyhold. It used to be strange to see Sentinel Borean at breakfast, passing the eggs and sausages down the long dining table or to see Sentinel Haleir in the stables, mucking out the stalls for the harts.

Now, Mahanon finds himself greeting the sentinels more often than not in different places throughout Skyhold like the Undercroft or sitting atop the balustrades along the stairs. Other residents of Skyhold also begin to do the same. Dagna takes a liking to one of the sentinels, Eirlana, who routinely brings her the metals and furs that she needs for some newfangled project of hers. Blackwall and Haleir frequently spend time in the stables with Master Dennet, brushing down the harts and horses. Borean becomes friends with Varric and Darius Cadash over some mishap with tax forms. And apparently, the sentinel whom Mahanon had met in the training arena is named Irosyla.

But as for Abelas, Mahanon finds himself running into Abelas for more than his fair share of times. Ellana only laughs when he tells her about the number of times he encountered Abelas in the courtyard gardens or in the training ring or even in the wooded mountain slopes surrounding Skyhold. When he asks her why she laughs about it, she only shakes her head cryptically. “You will find out some time soon,” she says with dancing eyes. Mahanon wants to ask more, but her Marked hand suddenly flares up with its sickly green light. He cradles her then, resisting the pain along their twin link, and tries to comfort her until the throbbing pain in her palm passes. Ellana refuses to tell him anything more about her pain, but he knows it exists. Another benefit — or perhaps, curse — of their twin souls.

He pushes his thoughts aside in favor of ambling over to the stables. He promised to take care of the harts with Haleir while Master Dennet was out visiting his family back in the Hinterlands. Mahanon is ever so grateful that their work in the Hinterlands is largely done. The Hinterlands itself are not a particularly terrible place. It is simply the sheer amount of bears in that area along with their strange and uncanny ability to hunt their party down no matter where they are in the Hinterlands. The number of bear encounters always spike up severely when his sister brings Cassandra with them, and Ellana _always_ brings Cassandra to the Hinterlands. He mumbles under his breath about lovesick sisters and their proclivity for trouble. But he stops in his tracks when he saw Abelas waiting by the stables instead of Haleir.

Abelas doesn’t have his usual bronze armor on. Instead, he wears a soft tunic with a high collar, and his long, white hair is loose instead of the rigid knot or ponytail he usually keeps it in. It is different than the training tunic: no cropped sleeves, more embroidery, and a higher, curved collar. This look makes him appear softer, less rigid than the armor, but it also accentuates the lines of his body and the corded muscle on his arms. Mahanon swallows and mentally eats his words about lovesick sisters. He is probably guilty of a small crush of his own, but it will probably pass. These kinds of things usually do. Also, at least he _admits_ his own crush instead of biting down on his emotions. His sister spent _months_ pining over someone who clearly loved her back.

“ _Aneth ara,_ Abelas,” he greets with a wry smile. Abelas dips his head in a small bow, and Mahanon goes over to stand beside him. “So, I thought Haleir was going to come instead.”

Abelas raises his brows and says, “Do you not wish to be in my company?”

It takes Mahanon a moment or two to see the note of sarcasm in Abelas’s dry words and the glitter in his eyes. A joke. That throws him off a little bit. Still, he replies glibly, “How did you know? But no, your company is not an issue here. I was just expecting Haleir since I promised her that we would take care of the harts while Master Dennet was gone. She seemed to have a particular liking for a few harts, and I thought it would be a good idea to shoulder some of the stable work.”

Now, Abelas’s face knits together with genuine resignation as he sighs, “Irosyla convinced Haleir of some urgent duty they had to take care of. Haleir sent me in her stead.”

“Well,” Mahanon responds cheekily. “Are you going to make me do another elvhen lesson while we work with the harts?” Despite his tone, it is a genuine question. Elvhen lessons with Abelas are… Rocky. Abelas is a good teacher, but at some point, the high dialect of Arlathan elvhen goes beyond Mahanon’s comprehension and patience. And Mahanon has a great deal of patience, moreso than his own sister.

Abelas leans in closer to Mahanon, almost bracketing his body with his against the fence. His golden eyes sparkle with something mysterious that sends a charge flickering down Mahanon’s spine as he murmurs, “Excellent idea.” He transitions smoothly over to Arlathan elvhen as he says, “We shall start now.”

Mahanon laughs, breathy and quiet, before he leans in closer to Abelas. Abelas’s eyes widen, but Mahanon uses that as an opportunity to slip past him. Hurriedly, he tries to change the subject around to say, “Have you worked with harts before?”

Abelas reaches out to grab Mahanon’s wrist and turn him around. He raises one long finger and tuts, “Say it again.”

Mahanon groans before saying in stilted Arlathan, “Hast thou labored with the harts before?”

Abelas lets him go with a soft chuckle. “A touch incorrect and a little too proper for the context of the situation,” he says. He smirks, and Mahanon mentally despairs. Abelas looks absolutely _devastating_ with a smirk on his face. Abelas taps Mahanon’s shoulder and corrects in Arlathan, “Have you worked with the harts before?”

Mahanon slumps against the fence and grumbles in his own Dalish dialect, “Wonderful. Fantastic. Excellent.” He glances up and raises an eyebrow before asking once more in Arlathan, “But have you worked with the harts before?”

Abelas regards him with lidded golden eyes, carefully, sizing him up, before relenting. His eyes soften, but he still continues to speak in elvhen, “Not much.”

Mahanon has to race to match his words with the context and what he already knows about Arlathan elvhen. He searches through the vocabulary he learned the day before asking, “Alright, so how much is ‘not much’ and how much can you handle?” He makes it halfway through the sentence in Arlathan before breaking back into Free Marcher Dalish for the last half.

Abelas snorts, and the mask of his expression cracks enough for Mahanon to see the genuine amusement underneath.

“Try me, I may surprise you,” Abelas answers with a smile. His expression sobers and he admits, “Only my lady’s and only a few times if any at all. I did not have that responsibility, and Lady Ghilan’nain was the one who kept most of the halla. Her followers would have had more skill and experience than I.”

Mahanon les out a non-committal hum at that. He turns to glance at the harts in the pen. Most of them are bred by Dalish clans since the _shemlen_ prefer the horses. The Tirashan Swiftwind stares back at Mahanon with unnervingly intelligent eyes while the Brecilian Surefoot paws at the ground. The hart in the back — the Pride of Arlathan — makes Mahanon’s expression sour. That was a Satinalia present from Solas. Another reminder lying around Skyhold of the apostate. There are too many of them, and Mahanon knows that Ellana still grieves the loss of a friend. An understandable loss, but still a loss that makes Mahanon want to punch Solas the next time he ever saw him.

The Royal Sixteen ambles over to the side of the fence before it suddenly butts its nose against Abelas’s leg and nickers loudly. Abelas lets out a surprised yelp, and Mahanon can’t help but snicker. “Oh, he must like you,” he snorts. The hart rears back and lets out a loud, ear-piercing trumpet as if he is emphasizing Mahanon’s words. Abelas winces, but the hart continues to nose after Abelas.

“Oh, he _really_ likes you,” Mahanon muses. “Normally, the harts love my sister more, but she may be facing tough competition especially if it’s this one. This is the hart that came from my own clan. We raised this one together since it was a newborn in our herd. Say hello to Ghestlin.”

“Little monster?” Abelas asks with a puzzled look on his face.

“Yep,” Mahanon confirms as he patted Ghestlin’s head. “ _Ghest_ for monster, and _lin_ because he was so small at the time. He shrieked like he was twelve times his size as a babe. He only settled down when his mother, Ellana, or I were nearby.”

Ghestlin nudges against Abelas’s leg again, whickering loudly. Then, he lifts his head and stares balefully at Mahanon before letting out another another scream.

“Fine, fine, I am going, I am going,” Mahanon grumbles. He glances over at Abelas and asks, “Can you grab the brushes and tools? They are in that bucket over there on the peg.” Then, he hoists himself over the fence with ease. He lands softly, and Ghestlin immediately goes over to him to nudge his pockets for treats. “No treats today,” he murmurs and before Ghestlin could trumpet again, he says, “Maybe you will get treats if you _behave._ Behaving means not screaming into our guest’s ear, no matter how much you like him. And do not give me that sad look. It might work on Ellana, but it will not work on me.”

When he turns around, he sees Abelas with the bucket in his hand, awkwardly standing by the gate of the fence. The Greater Frostback Elk tries to reach him over the gate, straining his neck to nose at Abelas’s shoulder. Mahanon guffaws at Abelas’s disgruntled expression and calls out, “You know, if you were going to work in the stables, you shouldn’t have worn a nice tunic like that.”

“This is not my ‘nice tunic.’ This is more of a sparse spare,” Abelas responds as he side-stepped away from the elk.

Mahanon shakes his head ruefully and then clicks his tongue. “Come on, Eirlin, leave him be. Neither of us have treats.” Eirlan snorts before lumbering back over to Mahanon and mouthing at his hair. _Eirlin, snow-child,_ Mahanon thinks as he ruffles Eirlin’s long fur. _My sister certainly has a way of naming things._

Mahanon beckons to Abelas with the crook of his finger and laughs, “No need for such uncertainty. What are you waiting for?” He holds out his hand, waiting for the bucket. Abelas carefully steps over to him with the bucket in his hand. Mahanon bends to grab it, but his hand brushes over the bare slit of skin on Abelas’s wrist — right between his gloves and sleeve — before grabbing the bucket. Mahanon can’t help but jolt a little at the direct contact, and although it is the most minute motion, he sees Abelas’s small flinch. He tries to push that out of his mind as he sets the bucket down on a nearby peg. “Come on,” he encourages. “Over the fence. Do I really need to be instructing a great, thousand-year-old sentinel on how to get over a fence?”

Abelas merely raises an eyebrow before he vaults over the fence gracefully. Mahanon resents that a little bit, but it isn’t like he didn’t expect it. This centuries-old elf is essentially the epitome of grace. He glances down at his own feet and tries to sum up his own gracefulness.  _Dexterous_ , he corrects himself mentally. He doesn’t need to be graceful, but he’s pretty dexterous. After all, you have to have a fair bit of dexterity if you want to avoid Sera’s mud pies and test grenades unscathed. That is good enough for him, but he is certainly pleased enough to watch Abelas any time of day.

“Introductions then?” Mahanon smiles. He gestures over to the various harts milling about in the pen and nosing over the Abelas. “My sister named them all in elvhen, so you can start your linguistics lessons whenever you want. You’ve already met Ghestlin and Eirlin. The red hart is Anise, and the wild hart over there is Alhannon. The Tirashan Swiftwind is Sylvas, the Brecilian Surefoot is Mirwen, and the Pride of Arlathan is Aranehn.” He shrugs and finishes, “My sister named all of them, so blame any linguistic error on her.”

Abelas places a hesitant hand on Anise’s head as he murmurs, “Eirlin, snow child. Anise, place of fire.” He moves on from hart to hart as he names and translates them. “Alhannon, favored soul of the wilds. Sylvas, freedom’s breath. Mirwen, the tenacity to move forward. Aranehn, my joy.” He looks at Mahanon and says, “Your sister has excellent taste in names.”

Mahanon’s lips quirks up as he replies, “Actually, on second thought, I believe _I_ named all of them.” That gets him a good chuckle, and he uses the opportunity to toss Abelas a brush. The sentinel catches it with remarkable speed, and Mahanon shakes his head at the sheer reflex speed he had. Unfair.

“You will have to take off your gloves for this one,” he informs Abelas. “For this, you have to feel the hart underneath your fingertips to feel the heartbeat. Faster rhythms means that they are scared, so you must soothe them. And with bare fingers, you can tell if there are any snarls in their fur or any thin patches to indicate disease or problems.”

“You know much about this,” Abelas comments as he tugs his gloves off, finger by finger. Somehow, Abelas manages to make even that simple action an act of grace. Also incredibly sexy but Mahanon is going to shove that thought to the very back of his head. Perhaps he spends too much time with Dorian and the Iron Bull.

Mahanon distracts himself by reminiscing, “I trained under the halla keeper in our clan when I was younger for a few moons. It was fun, but I missed the thrill of hunting. Also, I did not feel as though Ghilan’nain was the right god to choose for my vallaslin, and those marked with Ghilan’nain were traditionally the halla keepers or the navigators of my clan. Neither position seemed attractive to me.”

“And you chose Dirthamen,” Abelas points out.

Mahanon shrugs before grabbing a brush of his own. He reaches out to Ghestlin, but the Royal Sixteen merely huffs at him before turning to Abelas. Betrayed by his own hart. Also, his own heart, but puns aside, Mahanon mutters under his breath, “Blasted hart. Be that way then.” He turns to sleepy-eyed Eirlin and starts to brush him down instead. “It just felt… Right,” he answers Abelas. “There are always secrets left to be discovered, something in the wild waiting to be found, something to uncover and something to hide. It made sense to me when I was younger. It still makes a little bit of sense to me still, but I am not sure how to put it into words.”

He gestures to where his sister’s rooms would be, towards the tall towers, and says, “Look at my sister. She chose Mythal, and it makes sense. She reaches far and wide, like tree roots or branches, searching for the root of the story. She was always like that when she was younger, and that is what won her the position of First over others in our clan. But now, she finds and upholds justice, protects people, rights wrongs. She never forgets.” He shakes his head and bitterly says, “A good choice for a Keeper, a good choice for an Inquisitor. But me? I am not like that. I search for things, and she fixes what I find.” He laughs once more, but this one is colder, sharper, and more of a brief bark of mirthless laughter than anything else.

Silence passes for several moments that seem to stretch on far longer than their actuality. “We were going to get marked like the twin gods once because we were also twins, but Falon’Din didn’t suit her,” he recalls.

“No,” Abelas says suddenly with sharp vehemence.

Mahanon pauses mid-sweep with his brush and says, “Oh. That was unexpected.”

Abelas dips his head down and murmurs, “My apologies.”

Mahanon waves his hand dismissively and replies, “No, no, I am not saying that was a bad thing. I was just saying that was unexpected. Feel free to express your opinion when you are with me. I will not mind. But yes, the god of death does not suit her at all. She is too alive, too vibrant, too light to be marked like that. Mythal suits her better.”

Abelas pauses his brushing to remark, “You two are much more similar than you let on.”

Mahanon stops as well to stare at Abelas. “Well, yes,” he awkwardly replies. “We are twins. It’s to be expected.”

Silence falls over them, and Abelas stares deeply into Mahanon’s eyes. Mahanon doesn’t want to admit it, but he can feel his cheeks flushing. The moment cuts off as soon as it began with a loud nicker from Ghestlin. _Truly a little monster_ , Mahanon ruefully thinks before he turns back to brushing Eirlin again. He can’t help but sneak glances at Abelas though.

Ghestlin noses up to Abelas and lets out a soft rumble of approval when Abelas brushes him. However, he brushes the hart in straight lines that run diagonally across Ghestlin’s side. Mahanon narrows his eyes at that; if he ever brushed Ghestlin like that, it would earn him a hard shove to the side from the hart. Truly a betrayal unlike anything he’d ever seen from that hart.

He stops brushing Eirlin and offers a rub behind the elk’s ears as an apology before silently stepping over to Abelas. He reaches out behind Abelas to guide his hands, and based on unfortunate positioning and lack of other options, he finds himself pressed flush to Abelas’s back. At first, he can feel Abelas stiffening, but the sentinel relaxes and waits for Mahanon’s next move. Mahanon tosses his brush back to the bucket and smiles with satisfaction when he hears the brush land inside the bucket. It would have been terribly embarrassing if he missed. He returns back to his original task and places his hands over Abelas’s hands, guiding them in more circular motions rather than the straight lines he was using before.

“Ghestlin prefers this much more than straight lines,” he murmurs as he guides Abelas’s hands. A hot flush colors Mahanon’s cheeks as he realizes just how tall Abelas is and how Abelas’s hands feel beneath his. Abelas complies with Mahanon’s movements, and they move together with the same rhythm.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Abelas says. Mahanon can feel the rumble and the vibrations in Abelas’s chest, and by this point, he knows he could step away. Abelas isn’t a fool; he would’ve known how to do it if Mahanon just told him with words. But Mahanon finds that he couldn’t step away.

It is a consequence of his actions, but underneath the warm sunlight, he feels at peace, swaying to the same rhythm of Abelas’s body. Mahanon does have the tendency to find the bright side to any consequence, just like his sister, and this is no exception. Half of him hates to admit the obvious truth, but the fact remains that he is… Attracted. Hopelessly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's only 2 works in the abelas / male lavellan tag and one of them is this fic.... this is a mistake that i must remedy

**Author's Note:**

> bioware rly did us dirty when they didn't give us more abelas content, huh


End file.
